


Rosemary for Remembrance

by phdfan



Series: A Moth-Eaten Scarf [39]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Minor Anders/Female Hawke, POV Fenris (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-05-02 13:35:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14545854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdfan/pseuds/phdfan
Summary: Fenris and Hawke have a meeting of bodies but not of minds.





	Rosemary for Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Another attempt at writing the fateful Fenris/Hawke scene. One day I'll get this right.

She smelt like rosemary.

That was all that he could think in the moment that she pressed her lips hard against his. Then he realised that he should probably be kissing her back.

_Hawke._

Did he just think it, or did he say her name aloud?

Either way, she pulled back and looked at him quizzically.

He didn’t want to bring it up. Didn’t want to think of him in this moment. But he couldn’t help himself. He had to know.

“What about Anders?” he asked.

She laughed.

“He’s fine,” she said. And Fenris wasn’t sure that was an answer to his question at all, but suddenly it didn’t seem to matter. Let Anders worry about his own back. This was all he had ever wanted.

The next time she kissed him, Fenris gave himself up to it. To her. His arms found their way around her, her hands found their way into his hair. She laughed again, soft and low against his lips, and he could drink that sound and be satisfied. But the way her body moved against his promised more. And he could not help but respond in kind.

She led him from the street, into her estate, up the stairs, into her bedroom. The drapes around her bed were the blood-red of the Amells, a fire burned in the grate. That was all he noticed before she pushed him onto the bed and he fell heavily, awkwardly, onto his back. She straddled him, then started working on removing his armour. Her eyes were dark in the firelight, and he strained upwards to meet her mouth again. She laughed, and nipped his lower lip. The taste of iron filled his mouth.

Her fingers were deft at the buckles that secured his breastplate, and she soon had it off, letting it thump to the floor. Then she started work on his vambraces.

“Hawke,” he started, but when she raised an eyebrow he didn’t know how to continue. How could he convey the magnitude of his hopes, his fears, in this moment? “Hawke,” he sighed, as she removed another piece of his armour and discarded it as easily as if it were a piece of debris.

Once he was divested of his armour, she unbuttoned his tunic, slowly spreading it open to reveal the lyrium scars that decorated his chest.

“You are beautiful,” she said, leaning down to plant a kiss on the complicated knotwork that covered his sternum. He could not help but stiffen as her lips brushed his skin, but the expected pain did not materialise. She was not a mage. A surge of gratitude was answered elsewhere in his body, and he could not help but grind up against her. She laughed again, and grabbed his wrists, pinning his arms over his head with one hand as she worked on his breeches.

He stiffened again. The position. Arms restrained. Helpless. Although his mind protested that this was _Hawke_ and he could throw her off with a single movement if he chose, his body was trained to respond in a certain way. A lesson in survival learnt through blood and pain. And so it did.

He went limp against the bed and watched passively as she tugged down his breeches, divested herself of undergarments, and mounted him. She leaned over him as she moved, still holding his hands pinned. Despite the panic that clattered away in his chest, the way her lips moved against his ear and her hair trailed over his naked chest turned his insides molten. It did not take long before he groaned – in shame, in desire – and gave her the last of his dignity. He could feel his cheeks burn as she slowed, stopped, and he turned his face away. She gently touched the side of his face, turning him back to look at her. He forced himself to open his eyes despite the tears that lingered there, unshed.

“It’s okay,” she said, and smiled. She released his hands and climbed off him, rolling onto the bed. She curled up in the crook of his arm, her head resting on his shoulder. After a moment, she placed her hand on the centre of his chest, and he could feel his heart thumping up against the palm of her hand.

“There’s always next time,” she said with a yawn, and closed her eyes.

Fenris remained awake, staring up at the blood-red drapes.


End file.
